Aftermath
by SassyJ
Summary: After the events of Forensic Evidence, Stuart decides whether to go to the pub with the team; or go home to escape the feelings that he had thought he had buried long ago.
1. Chapter 1

He stood and watched them for a moment. He thought he was over that feeling, he'd dealt with it all years ago. He turned away. _Pub?_ He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. Honestly. The last place on earth he wanted to be right then was the pub.

He knew where he should be. With the team, celebrating a victory. Acknowledging once again, he had come on too strong. And he knew what they'd think if he didn't show. _DS Turner, too big a fish to drink with the plebs._

Suddenly, he had enough of all of it. Being Detective Sergeant Stuart Turner. He wanted to hold out a hand and hitch a ride to anywhere else. He had sworn to himself a long time ago that he was never going to feel like this ever again. He walked out into the cold night air.

_Pub? Or home?_ He hefted his car keys in his hand and knew there was really no choice. He didn't want to face anyone who might know him feeling like this.

*~*~*~*~*

He pulled the Alfa into his parking space outside his flat. As he switched off the ignition, he realised that he had no idea just how he had arrived home. _Wonderful...idiot._ He locked the car carefully and headed for his flat.

~*~*~*~*~

He drifted around his kitchen, pulled open the freezer, and stared at the one remaining frozen dinner. He pulled it out. Thai Green Curry. He pulled the meal out of its cardboard box, stabbed the plastic cover a couple of times with real vengeance and shoved it in the microwave. He leaned back against the counter.

Behind him the microwave dinged. He glanced sideways at it. And knew that attempting to shove food past the aching dry void in his throat was pointless. He walked away.

He couldn't face television. Being on the outside looking in. _He had enough of that in his daily life._ That thought surprised him. He thought he'd made his peace with all those feelings eighteen years. He'd buried them all with his mother. He bent down to shuffle through his music collection. Something that went with his mood. _Music to cut your throat by._ That thought shocked him, that wasn't him, wasn't the persona he'd built up for himself. He stuck a Cash cd in the player, turned down the lights, and slumped down on his sofa.

As the strains of _If You Could Read My Mind_ quietly plucked at his nerve endings, he lay back, and flopped a weary arm across his forehead. As if he really could press the unwanted memories back in their box. This was stupid. He had been years older than Tommy was right now. Perhaps it was because he knew what was coming. Perhaps he was just feeling sorry for himself because he was lonely. Coming home each night to his lonely flat. _No one to come home to._

He had a sister, but she had her own world and circle of friends, and her family, and her brother just didn't seem to fit. Sometimes they felt like complete strangers. He never saw his father. As far as Graham Turner was concerned, his son was an adult. They weren't an over demonstrative family at the best of times, and his father had his younger sister to be concerned about. Stuart was old enough to take care of himself. So he had. Winning gained his father's approval, and confirmed his belief in himself. He didn't need people. If he could rely on himself he could survive, people just weren't part of the plan.

Perhaps this was all just self-pity. But that didn't explain the pain in his heart. He looked up at the ceiling, as it blurred, and the tears fell. He was alone, no one would ever know. His persona was intact. And if they thought him a stuck up idiot, wasn't that what they had been thinking almost from the start.

The sound didn't register at first. Then he recognised the front door bell. He didn't move. It went again. He wasn't going to answer it, but it went again. And then, again. Whoever it was, wasn't planning on going away. Someone was as stubborn as himself. He got to his feet, wiped his shirt sleeve over his face. With luck he could give whoever it was short shrift and be left alone in peace.

He yanked open his front door.

"I wondered when you were going to let me in."

She moved towards him, and for a moment he stood there. The one person who could see through him however many barriers he put up.

"Jo." He stepped aside. "What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you."

He looked puzzled, "Why?"

"Because I know you; because I read between the lines, and because Mickey told me about something you said. Then when you didn't turn up at the pub. All the clues fell into place."

"Clues?"

She tapped the side of her head with an index finger "The little grey cells."

"Ace detective." He grinned.

His smile didn't quite reach his eyes, but it was a start, she decided.

"Coffee?" he said.

"How about some of that Blue Mountain you've got stashed away somewhere?" She countered, they'd all been full of ripping him off the last of his favourite coffee, and she wanted one his slightly rueful responses; _perhaps that would wipe away the pain she could see in his expression._

Another grin, as cockeyed as the first. _And this is some of my best material too._ She resisted the urge to put her arms around his neck and just hug him. Provoking an opening of the floodgates wouldn't do at all. If he felt comfortable enough to open up, he would. She just had to bide her time. She followed him up to his lounge. _Something mournful on the sound system._ He was in the kitchen, she could hear banging, and he was fiddling with the coffee machine.

His back was towards her, she glanced to the left, just past him she could see the microwave door was open, and the abandoned meal inside. She could tell by the set of his shoulders he was hiding from her, not just fiddling with the coffee machine. She put a hand on his back, feeling the muscles tense beneath her fingers. He half-turned towards her and seemed to hesitate, and she watched as his defences crumbled.

She stepped in and hugged him then, as his arms went round her waist and he clutched her to him so fiercely that she wondered if she would ever draw breath again. He didn't make a sound. Buried his face in the side of her neck and her shoulder, and her shirt grew damp.

There wasn't much she could do, other than make soothing noises, and gently hold on until the storm had passed.

She felt his fierce grip loosen, and he turned his face away, clearly trying to recover his position. Well, this time she wasn't going to let him retreat.

He started to fiddle with the coffee maker again, and she put her hand out and covered his. "I think we need something a little stronger than coffee, don't you?"


	2. Chapter 2

Jo stepped forward, glancing at the wine rack, this was definitely going to call for something stronger than coffee. Stu was still staring at the coffee maker as if it was a puzzle to be solved upon which his life depended. But she wasn't about to let him hide from her. They needed to have this out in the open. She'd heard all about their day from Terry, Grace and Kezia, even Mickey and Eddie had things to say; but Mickey was also concerned enough about Stuart's state of mind to corner Jo about it.

Jo was going to get to the bottom of the conundrum that was Stuart Turner once and for all.

She reached past him to the wine rack, and pulled out a bottle, and put her hand on his, "not coffee," he was still resistant, his face turned away, "get a couple of glasses" she prompted. He hesitated, then pulled the cupboard open, and picked up two wine glasses. Jo picked up the bottle and the corkscrew she'd found in the cutlery drawer and guided him firmly back to his sofa.

She busied herself opening the bottle, and poured them a generous glassful each. "Stu, you do realise it's just possible that the team would understand, that you don't need this big act to prove that you're immune."

For a moment she thought he wouldn't answer her, he was looking down at the floor. Then he looked up, looked directly at her, his lashes were sticking together in little clumps, and she could see the streaks of tears on his face, but the pain and confusion in his expression said it all.

"I know." He muttered, and she took his hand again.

"Stu... why do you do it? You're an intelligent person, with so much to give. Why is it always the big act, and all that attitude?"

"I...."

"And don't tell me it's your distance, preventing you from caring too much, or getting too close. I've heard that one before, and I don't quite buy it."

For a moment she thought she had pushed too hard. An expression of anger crossed his face, and a muscle clenched in his jaw. Then she realised that the anger was more internalised than anything she had said. He picked up the glass and took a hefty slug of the wine.

"What is the point of any of it, Jo?" his voice was so quiet, she wasn't clear that she had really heard what he said.

"Stuart?"

He emptied the glass, and reached for the bottle, pouring himself another generous measure. "I do what I do, and then I come home to this." He waved his hand.

She stared at him, as he took another hefty belt from the glass. "Well, the idea of this Stu, was we were supposed to get to the bottom of what's troubling you. Not provoke a crisis of faith." She put a hand on his arm, as he drained the second glass. "This isn't like you."

"What is me, though?" He poured another glass of wine.

Slightly nonplussed at the turn the conversation was taking, Jo looked at him in confusion. Weighing her words carefully, she gave it to him straight "A talented, and intelligent officer with a lot to give, who isn't nearly as aloof or as arrogant as he would have everyone think he is."

"Oh, sure."

She was surprised by the bitterness in his tone. "Stuart? How long have you felt like this?" she breathed "Slow down there a bit, hun," as he took another sizeable gulp from the wine glass.

"How long?" he muttered, "I don't know. A while." He looked at her, and she tried to read his expression, "Ever wonder why we do it? What it's all for?"

Jo thought about it, "We do it for the same reasons we always did, hun. The people who need us."

"Do they really?" Stuart's eyes were sad, and there was a heaviness in his tone, "Tonight, I told that little boy that it would all be okay, that Mike Vincent was going away for a long time." He looked down at the floor. "He'll plead guilty, so that's automatically fifty percent off, and then by the time the solicitor and the barrister have finished, they'll knock a bit more off, and he'll be out in eighteen months... Free to do it again to someone else."

He reached out for the glass again, but Jo intercepted him. "Stu, you did what you could. Even eighteen months is a long time to that family."

"Longer than you know."

Jo looked at him in horror, "What's brought all this on?"

"Just wondering why I chose this life, why I've done any of the things I've done." He looked around him. "What any of this is actually... for." He picked up the glass with his other hand, and gulped the rest of it back.

Her fingers tightened round his wrist, "Stu, you're very good at what you do." She looked around her at his beautiful, immaculate flat, "You're successful, just look at yourself, and what's around you. This place is gorgeous!" She took his hand between both of hers, "okay you could slow down a little, think a bit more before you say things that upset and annoy people, but everyone appreciates how good you are at the job."

He really didn't look like he believed her. "Do you know why I joined the Police?" the change of tack stunned Jo as Stuart's dark eyes searched her face. "I did it because I was bored with teaching and routine, and rude children that I wasn't allowed to control. Then along comes one of my old uni mates and he's so full of joining the Met, so I thought... _why not... where's the harm?_ ... and I love to win; so I joined because I wanted to win, to beat him. I had to be the best. So I won, and I beat him, and I got the pick of the postings. I've scratched and scraped my way up. I made DS, and then all that business with 'Wanted' and I really thought I had it all." The look of defeat in his eyes was painful to her.

"For what, Jo?" He tilted his head back a second, and she caught the flash of brightness in his eyes, he swallowed hard.

"Stu... I don't know what to say..."

He reached for the bottle again. "Get drunk with me, Jo."

She picked up her glass, and took a sip. It was a lovely red, velvety smooth, he'd put a lot of thought and care into buying it. The way he had with his flat, carefully saving and managing his money so that he could afford to buy a place like this. Will and Stevie had been quite full of his _living the dream_. Looking around her, the evidence of his organised life everywhere, from the gym schedule neatly pinned to the kitchen door, to the rest of the immaculately ordered room, Jo wondered about the reality.

"I ran into Si two weeks ago."


End file.
